


Passing Strange

by Acanthus_Addams



Series: The Chronicles of Yharnam [3]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:41:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26330542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acanthus_Addams/pseuds/Acanthus_Addams
Summary: As the night nears its end, a faithful and inquisitive doll awaits her hunter's return.
Series: The Chronicles of Yharnam [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906141
Kudos: 10





	Passing Strange

Passing Strange

It was so quiet here. Sometimes it was peaceful; other times rather a bore. The moon glowed a fierce red, and with this advancement of the night came a choppy evening breeze that nipped subtly at her porcelain 'skin'. It was a little sharp, perhaps ever so startling, but not entirely unpleasant, as could be said of every other sensation she recalled. And she did recall all of them – for how could a doll possibly take for granted the ability to feel?

The silence of these stagnant environs gave her plenty of time to think. And in tending to the garden, to the graves and to the little ones of the stump, such musings were anything but trivial: what was she? How did she come to be, a nameless man-made manikin adrift on a measly scoop of dreamt-up earth? From what remarkable source had secreted the powers that granted her consciousness? Of very little she could be certain, and seldom did answers come her way. What she did know was that she was no commonplace household item. Lifesize, hand-painted and wearing the finest of doll-like livery, from her ribboned bonnet to the thick silken shawl on her shoulders; her creator had gone into near-inconceivable detail. Now and then, this thought almost seemed melancholy. But regardless of her intended purpose, she was crafted with great love, and, in equal abundance, love was exactly what she had to give.

This was the Hunter's Dream: a safe haven that would forever stand apart from the waking world, the real world. Members of the hunt were tethered to this realm, bestowing upon them a unique form of deathlessness until their morbid work was done. With unfaltering compassion, she looked after these tired hunters, healing their wounds and strengthening them with the blood echoes of the very beasts they slew. And should they just need a friendly face to talk to, the poor souls would never want for company around her. What she knew of the waking world was only what they had told her, and though many of the tales were ones of fondness and nostalgia, the look in their eyes told quite a different story. The hunt had hold of them, like the strings of an eldritch puppet master; it was all too easy for a hunter of beasts to lose himself and helplessly become that which he hunts. Such was her role: to nurture sanity in a world of madness, and guide her dear hunters to the end of their duties with their hearts and minds intact.

"May you find your worth in the waking world," she would say to them every time they departed. True, the beast scourge had painted the town of Yharnam in a rather dismal light, but man belongs in neither dream nor nightmare, and only at the end of the hunt would the break of dawn reveal to them their life's true path. Her place was here, in this unseen plane of existence, never to leave. By her understanding, however, the Hunter's Dream was imagined from the memory of a place within Yharnam itself. She believed it to be practically identical, from the grand workshop to its surrounding shrubbery and quaint cobbled walkways. Why, perhaps there was even another doll there, just like her! It had been a long time since she had learned of this 'real' workshop, and despite her curiosity, she knew not to probe the subject further. Gehrman did not like to talk about the past.

Poor Gehrman. The old man seemed so troubled, yet maintained a taciturnity that created quite a distance between them on their diminutive clump of land. Rarely did they speak at any length, and when they did, the way he looked at her could often change from one sentence to the next. Sometimes, it was with a kind of admiration; the next moment, complete revulsion. Infrequently, he chatted away with heartening excitement; other times, he wanted nothing to do with her. Such an ambivalence saddened her now and then, especially given his consistently warm greeting of new hunters to the dream. Still, she worried about him so. The very first hunter of the workshop, now a weary custodian bound here to share his wisdom with those still young and brave enough to face Yharnam's beasts. She never dared inquire of his experiences during his prime, nor of how he lost his right leg, for the restlessness with which he slept led her to believe that those were questions better left unanswered. The names he uttered to himself were more than enough to sate her curiosity: Ludwig…Laurence…Willem…and Maria…

Perhaps it was simply her imagination – maybe even wishful thinking – but the little doll had always felt a certain connection to the waking world. Something of a 'tie' that grew stronger with each passing hour of the night, and to which the desolation of the Hunter's Dream compelled her to cleave. For whatever reason, a particular gravestone at the back of the workshop elicited a much stronger pull, drawing her childlike wonder more than anything else ever had. Yet, unlike the Yharnamites' tales, this bond was not rooted in nostalgia; rather, it felt like an anchor on her chest, pushing down upon her a sickly weight that, were it a tangible thing, would be sure to suffocate. That was, until but mere hours ago. She felt the change just before the hunter had arrived in the dream, drenched in blood and smelling faintly of lumenflowers. When she mentioned it to them, this "liberation from heavy shackles", they seemed to oddly understand (was there even a little guilt in their eyes?). And with a courteous nod from them both, the subject was dropped, never to be spoken of again.

But this was not all, as she had discovered even earlier in the night. Patiently, she stood in wait at the foot of the steps, and in doing so, began to caress the beautiful hair ornament that the good hunter had presented to her as a gift. From between its fine teeth, she unthreaded a strand of silvery white hair, virtually identical to hers, and as she moved it about in her hand, another vague whiff of lumenflower caught her notice. She remembered the feeling of seeing the ornament for the first time: such rapture, such sentiment, a whole echelon of emotion untapped until that very moment. How moving it was that she actually shed a tear, like a living being. And an ordinary tear it was absolutely not – in fact, it bore much resemblance to a blood gem, save for its brilliant white hue. With great intrigue, she suddenly realised that it could well be! …If the substance she 'bled' was really blood. Hunters had been known to strike her with their weapons, either accidentally or on purpose, giving forth a substance of the same alabaster sheen. She had often heard the term 'paleblood' thrown around by the newest of hunters; could it actually be…? This night certainly was raising a lot of questions.

Of course, she did not mind the violence. She could neither die nor feel pain, and having sworn to embolden the men and women of the hunt in any way she could, who was she to deny them a little venting of aggression? The graves within the dream stood for those who had survived the hunt, and surrendered themselves to Gehrman's mercy in order to awaken for good. Though their number was staggering, she remembered each and every one of them, for they all had been just as dear to her, however long they stayed. One was a peculiarly impersonal woman who dressed like a crow; another, his features as ashen as his frayed old garb, displayed a rare and pleasing empathy for the beasts he was tasked to cut down. In this Hunter's Dream, a sanctuary for all those fighting for Yharnam and its people, nobody would ever be forgotten as long as she was here.

Though still looking out at the gravestones that connected to the waking world, the doting doll began to make her way up the grassy side path towards the back of the workshop. There was no telling when the hunter would be back, after all, so it only made sense for her to busy herself in the meantime. The little ones danced in their bath as she approached, and, like always, she giggled and waved in response. Her destination lay in front of her: the enigmatic grave that had once caused her much discomfort. And yet, she now was here of her own choosing, lifted above her ethereal burden and free to name this spot for another. Few questions she had the insight to answer, least of all about her own existence. But she had all the time in the world to ponder on such things. For now, her concern was her hunter, their safety and the bringing an end to the beasthood that had claimed so many. On bended knee, she bowed her head before the stone and began to pray:

" _O Flora,"_ whispered she with eyes shut tight, _"of the moon, of the dream._

" _O little ones, O fleeting will of the ancients._

" _Let the hunter be safe, let him find comfort._

" _And let this dream, his captor…_

" _Foretell a pleasant awakening…"_

And that was when the workshop burst into flames.


End file.
